


Messing With the Danger Zone

by coricomile



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Go fuck yourself, M/M, Masturbation, Porn Watching, Self Love: Literally, Self-Penetration, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27702218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: Sam feels like a teenager again, sporting a half-chub in public just thinking about getting off, and it should be embarrassing- itisembarrassing- but he's been thinking aboutitfor days and if he just gets it out of his system he can go back to jerking off to his brother's porn like a normal dude.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 26
Kudos: 92





	Messing With the Danger Zone

Like almost everything else in Sam's life, it's Dean's fault. 

They're in the middle of nowhere Tennessee, chasing down something that eats livers and eyeballs and leaves the bodies in fields. Sam already has one cup of coffee in him, another steaming away on the tiny desk, and he yawns into his fist as he opens his laptop. The first page that boots up is a porn site and he can't help the roll of his eyes. Dean should probably have his own computer, something of his own to crash and burn with pornbot viruses, but Sam hasn't ever fought too hard on that point. He probably should. 

Dean snores away on the bed twenty feet away, curled up fetal, one hand under the pillow and knees halfway to his chest. Sam takes a long look at him, holding his breath more than he needs to, but Dean just keeps sleeping, face squashed and distorted against the pillow, nose twitching and mouth wide open. He's a mess, always has been, and it's unfair that he still looks good like that. 

When he's sure that Dean isn't going to jump off the mattress and shout _gotcha_ , Sam quietly hits the back button and waits for the crappy wifi to load up the last video his brother watched. The video he probably got himself off to before crashing. He's done it before and will do it again, a guilty curiosity to find out what gets Dean off, what he thinks about when he's jerking it. When they were teenagers, he used to wait for Dean to go out for a long night, wait for Dad to leave him alone, and then dive under the bed for the stash of sticky magazines Dean barely bothered to hide. He could have called it idle curiosity then and now, but he knows himself better than that. 

He mutes the speakers then checks three times that they really are muted before he presses play. 

The video is only a minute long and there's a joke in there somewhere. It's clearly amateur, the camera a little shaky and too close up and skipped right into the main action. It's some guy, smooth skinned and probably young, cock bent down and somehow shoved inside himself, one hand flat over the base of it, the other holding his balls out of the way. He's pumping the heel of his palm down at a quick pace, fucking himself fast and dirty. Halfway through he stops moving his hands and starts thrusting his hips, the camera losing part of it to show just a pillar of a soft thigh and glimpses of the shaft of the guy's red-almost-purple cock. Sam almost wishes he had thought to plug his headphones in. 

There's a two second money shot, the guy's not actually hard dick slipping free and immediately shooting out bursts of come into the crease of his thigh, white dripping down before the video cuts off, asshole clenching and releasing and hips jerking up. Sam closes the window and ignores his half mast, already pulling up lore about liver eating monsters and resolutely not looking at Dean snoring away. The idea is there, though, tucked in the back of his mind. 

It's always Dean's fault. 

\---

They kill the liver eater. It's almost laughable how many things are done for good once you cut off their heads. Dean's in a good mood, already casing the town for bars and strip joints, ready to reward himself for a job well done. Sam wants no part of it. He doesn't like one night stands, doesn't like the way Dean stops talking to him as he zeroes in on his prey, actively hates the awkward few minutes of lap dance that Dean always insists on if they're at a place with a pole. Sam prefers the reward of a cold beer or two in the middle of an abandoned field and maybe a pricey slice of cheesecake or baklava if they're somewhere that offers it, but he won't kill Dean's buzz if he can help it. 

Instead, he gets Dean to drop him off at their room, ignoring the exasperated glances Dean throws his way. It's both annoying and a little sweet in that specific Dean way that the Impala doesn't pull out of the parking lot until the door to the room is closed and locked behind him. Dean is one part charming, two parts cloying, and three parts almost painfully dedicated. Sam is a lot of things- _good_ things, he knows that, he does- but he's been clinging to the back of Dean's thigh since he was two years old and big enough to stand and no matter how hard he tries to shove off, he falls back into it as soon as Dean's within fifty feet. He doesn't let himself think too long about Dean's motivations. He's too busy with his own. 

This week's motel room is nautical themed. It's all blues and paper strips of ship wheels and Jesus fishes at the footboards and base of the ceiling, even if they're as landlocked as can be. Sam hasn't defaced tacky wallpaper since he was seven, armed with cheap crayons and cheaper highlighters, but the wonky mermaid and sailor faces of the print staring down at him really call for the Sharpies in his backpack. Dean would approve of a few marker moustaches and monocles but Sam does have some self restraint. Most of the time, anyway. 

He changes into sweatpants and flops down into his bed with every intention of getting a decent night of sleep. He hasn't seen a solid eight in years, long before he went off to Stanford, but it doesn't stop him from trying every now and again. It's been barely a year since Dean yanked him out of his apartment, but he's been so used to someone else breathing beside him for so long that he can't focus on anything but the faint sounds of cars moving and TV noise from a few rooms down and the rush of the wind outside. When his phone buzzes, he rolls over to check it and gives up on sleep. 

_Don't wait up. Got a firecracker_

Sam taps his thumb against the side of his phone, swallowing down the faint burn of jealousy that always hits him when Dean hooks up. The porn in the browser has been guys lately, Dean's taste in men as wide as his taste in women, and it's another thing that's almost funny. Dad would probably turn them black and blue if he knew both his kids grew up half bent, taking _any port in a storm_ a little too seriously. Sam wonders if Dean picked up a guy this time to scratch that particular itch. It would be just like Dean to choose to do that in the capital s South, where he's as likely to get punched in the mouth as he is to get laid. They're not terribly far away from each other, at least in Dean's head. Maybe in Sam's, too. 

It's worse when it's a man that Dean spends the night with. Sam's always had that hot boil of competition and the selfish need for Dean's attention focused solely on him, can't help the way his mind wanders to how he could do whatever it is Dean's looking for better. He wonders if Dean would pick him up somewhere if they weren't related. He wonders if Dean would see him in a bar and turn on that _I'm hot, you're hot, let's fuck_ smile. He wonders if Dean has ever looked at him and been at least a little interested in that final port. 

It's not a road to go down. Not tonight, high off a job well done and a room to himself and sleep forever the worst sort of tease that never gives him what he wants. It's been longer than a few months since he did his own turn at a hookup, but his right hand knows everything he likes and he's got time to drag it out instead of jerking one out fast in the shower. He can make the best of it. The room is empty, he didn't get smashed over the head or choked out for once, and he's got time. He might as well enjoy it. 

For ten, fifteen minutes he clicks through videos on his laptop, incognito browser on because he knows better. The one minute video flashes through his head and he thinks _no, bad idea_. To be fair to himself, he's never met a bad idea he didn't run full tilt at. It's instinct at this point, trained into him as much as anything else ever has been. 

Research is eight tenths the solution to any problem and if there's a question there's a good chance someone has already answered it. It seems pretty straightforward- insert dick into ass, proceed to fuck- but there's a lot of delicate territory at risk and Dean will never, ever let him live it down if he somehow fractures his dick trying to bend it the wrong way. The pain would be excruciating. The humiliation of dick recovery would be so much worse. 

He ends up on PornHub with a six minute tutorial. His hand itches for a pen and a notebook, his usual way to process new information, but this is one of those situations that needs the research committed to memory without a paper record. The guy in the video is decent looking- a little too hairy, a little too skinny, a little too small all over- but he gives a lecture that would make Professor Gavins from Law 101 proud. His voice barely breaks when he's balls deep inside of _himself_ , still giving breathy pointers as he rides his own cock. Sam has to appreciate the dedication if anything else. 

He doesn't get around to trying it himself that night, but he does spread out on the mattress, sweats shoved down just under his balls and hand tight around his cock, head running form and technique strategies as much as it runs fantasies. He scrambles to grab a sandpaper rough handful of motel tissues to jizz into in an effort not to stain his clothes or the sheets. There's a non zero chance that Dean won't clock it sometime before they leave anyway, will come back smelling like sweat and salt and overly pleased with himself and in full-on bastard mode. Sam squeezes his eyes closed and tries his best not to think of the tilt of Dean's mouth in that self satisfied smirk. 

\---

It's a week until he gets the room to himself again. They've spent most of the day up to their elbows in poorly archived microfiche and Dean's been twitchy for at least half of it, mouth twisted because the ancient librarian shushes him every time he bitches about it. Sam's not surprised when Dean demands a bar and at least a few hours of pool where he can be as damn loud as he wants. He waves Dean off, ignores the weird look he gets in return, and does his best not to scurry back to the room. 

He feels like a teenager again, sporting a half-chub in public just thinking about getting off, and it should be embarrassing- it _is_ embarrassing- but he's been thinking about _it_ for days and if he just gets it out of his system he can go back to jerking off to his brother's porn like a normal dude. 

The first thing he does is draw the curtains shut. The second is to set the chain on the door. He wants all the warning he can get if Dean comes back early. They've walked in on each other jerking off more than once, walked in on each other fucking more than once, too, but he's not taking chances this time.

The sheets are cheap rough against his bare back when he lays himself down, bottle of lube next to him and one of their softer towels shoved under his ass. He rolls his shoulders against the sheets, feels the scrape of them over his skin, and shivers. This is such a dumb idea, it really is, but his cock still fattens up against his stomach as he bends one knee up and gets his fingers wet. 

This he knows- the feel of himself inside against his fingertips, the way it always takes a minute to get used to the first finger slipping inside of him but how the second one goes in easy. How the angle of his hand changes if his arm is over the thigh versus under the thigh, how each one is good in its own way but never the same as someone else's hands. For a long stretch of time, he forgets what he's supposed to be doing, mind flickering between the twitch of his cock and the fullness in his ass and the feedback loop of soft muscle against his fingers. He could just reach down with his free hand and jerk himself off fast and dirty and be very, very satisfied, but- But. 

The weirdly hot instructional video said he couldn't be too hard. His cock is curving up towards his belly button, anticipation and sensation keeping it fuck ready, and he whines when he slips his fingers free. He's not small by any stretch of the imagination, which he had assumed would make the whole thing easier- more room to reach, more of himself to push inside- but it seems to be backfiring on him as he tries to kill his hard on without killing the mood entirely. 

When he's back to half mast, he lays his palm flat over his shaft and guides his cock down. It feels ridiculous, shameful and weird and like a _bad idea_ , but he's already here and he might as well just do it. It takes both hands and his hips lifted up off the mattress to get the angle right. The mostly soft head of his cock catches against the rim but isn't rigid enough to push inside and he's got _extra_ between there and the root and he's bending things that shouldn't be bent and there's so much lube that his skin keeps slipping against itself. He's equal parts still turned on and frustrated and aware that he only has so much time. 

He's ready to call it off and admit defeat when he discovers that if he uses all four fingers of one hand to press the head in against the give of his hole and use the other hand to cup his balls out of the way he can- oh. _Oh_. His ass clenches and his wrist jerks at the sensation, pushing his cock deeper into himself. 

Sam swears out loud, knees falling open and palm pressing on the down curved shaft of his dick, just holding it there for the moment. Sweat sticks him to the sheets, makes his whole body too cold and overly sensitive, each bit of air just a little too much as he squirms. When he lifts his hips and shoves down with his hand, he damn near sees stars, every nerve inside of him awake and confused and firing off at full speeds.

It's fucking and being fucked all at once, a one man threesome that makes his thighs and hands shake in equal measure. He wants to bite down on something but if he turns over he'll lose the angle and he would rather be stabbed. Both his hands are occupied. He can't bite down onto his knuckles, his wrist. No one's here to listen anyway. He swears and groans and holds his palm flat over the shaft of his cock, keeping it in place as he fucks up into it at a jerky angle. He can't quite get his own little spot inside but it doesn't matter at all. It really, really doesn't.

His hand slips as he comes, the head of his cock tugging against his rim as it's pushed out. If he could think straight, Sam might feel bad for the cleaning staff, but he's too busy being distracted by the shake of his damp thighs and the wet that came from himself sliding out of his hole and the entire jerk and release cycle his whole body is repeating. It's filthy and a little disgusting. He's sensitive from scalp to the soles of his feet, a little dizzy, left panting and staring up at the ceiling. 

Yeah. He'll be doing that again. 

\---

It's not like he does it every time he jerks off, but he has learned how to get into a pretty good angle over the edge of a tub when there's one available. It feels better like that anyway, lets him use the motion of his hips instead of his arm, gives him something to brace his hand against so he doesn't slip out. He can go slower, his thighs less likely to wear out before his wrist, and if his stamina hasn't improved tenfold over the last three weeks from this alone, there isn't hope for anyone ever at all. 

Of course that's how Dean finds him, barging into the bathroom and complaining about getting his turn at the shower. There isn't a graceful way to get up, one knee in the tub, one on the ground, his forearm trapped under his body. His back is to the door so he can brace himself against the wall, which means Dean has the full view, no talking himself out of it. He's been busted and good. 

"I don't think saying go fuck yourself is ever going to be the same," Dean says as Sam tries to untangle himself and get up. The door doesn't close and Sam feels himself going red all over with equal parts anger and humiliation. His cock pops free and thumps against the warm edge of the tub, wilting in shame. Sam closes his eyes and tries not to explode on the spot. 

"Oh my god, _get out_." He waits until he hears Dean retreat to get his shaky legs standing and to pull his sweatpants on over his still damp skin. For a solid ten seconds, he considers trying to fit himself through the little window above the toilet and making a break for it before giving the fantasy up. He's never been a coward and the worst Dean can do is laugh himself sick until he moves onto his next source of amusement. 

Dean is kicked back on his bed, legs crossed at the ankles, hands behind his head. He raises his eyebrows and grins, all his teeth on display. It's unfair how that look makes Sam's stomach go tight with shame and his dick sit up at the same time. The window is still an option, or maybe the door. Sam's barefoot and mostly naked, but he runs faster than Dean even without a headstart. It's tempting. Instead, he grabs for a shirt from his bag, yanking it on over his sweaty, unwashed hair and hopes for some shred of dignity. 

"Think I saw that in a porno," Dean says, smashing those hopes down without a single breath between. Sam clenches his fists and crawls under the covers of his own bed. Maybe, if he pulls the ratty quilt over his head, he can pretend he's somewhere else. It didn't work when he was a kid, but hope springs eternal. "Actually, I _know_ I saw that in a porno."

"Dean, shut _up_." The air under the cover gets hot too quick and reeks of his own sweat, his shower ruined before he even bothered to touch soap. When he twists to shove his face into his pillow, the lube still wet on his skin slides and his confused dick doesn't know if it should shrivel in mortification or get hard from the memory of not even five minutes ago. 

"You been watching my porn, Sam?" Dean asks, voice bright and teasing. Sam hates him. 

"Fuck _off_." The pillow smells worse than his sweat, dusty and heavy with mothballs. Maybe he'll suffocate. There's a blessed full minute of silence and then Dean laughs. Sam hates him _so much_. 

"You did!" Dean's voice is closer, somewhere between the beds. If he so much as tries to pull the shitty quilt down, Sam is going to tackle him to the ground and hit him in the face until one of them bleeds. "Aw, Sammy. You know I've got the good stuff. You just had to ask."

"Dean, I swear to God. Shut the fuck up." Sam coils in, fists already balled, and nearly lunges when he feels the bed dip. He's stuck in his own cocoon, legs wrapped in the sheets and Dean's weight acting as an anchor point to the side. The shitty motel has good corner tucks, trapping him in. "Go away."

"Nothing to be ashamed about," Dean says, smug and insufferable. "Never thought to try it out myself, but you-" A whistle. Sam can see the shape of Dean's mouth even behind the red tinged black behind his eyelids. "Always were an overachiever." A beat of silence, Sam's heart slamming against his ribcage. He hasn't ever fooled Dean with the fake sleep routine but he's good at the cold shoulder and he isn't afraid to break it out now. "What's it feel like?" 

"Seriously?" It's stupid enough for Sam to nose his way out of the covers, peeking the top of his head out to see Dean's face. It's like he's fifteen again, hiding away from Dean's wheedling need to know how _baby's first time_ went, embarrassed down to his bones but stubborn enough to not take the smart path and back down. 

"Seriously," Dean says. He's still grinning, even as he lays down, propping his head up with his hand, elbow next to Sam's shoulder and knees thudding into Sam's thighs as he makes himself comfortable. "C'mon. Tell me. What's it feel like?"

Sam could shove him off the bed. It would lead to them rolling around on the floor, a play fight with both of them pulling punches and Dean ending up on top because he's always known just the right spots to push to make Sam's joints buckle. They'd laugh and Sam would be covered in Dean until the smell of mothballs and dust was replaced with leather and Dean sweat and in the morning Dean might make a few jokes at his expense but he'd let the topic drop eventually. Sam doesn't want to let it drop. Doesn't mean he can look Dean in the eye when he spills, though. 

"It's-" Sam presses his forehead against the too flat pillow, rolling fully onto his stomach. "It's like you're having a threesome with yourself."

"Lot of experience there?" Dean asks. Sam can't get leverage under the wrap of the quilt to properly lash out with any of his limbs, but he turns his head enough to glare. Dean's tongue tucks between his teeth, the tip hot pink in the dimness of the room. 

"Do you want to know or not?" Sam asks, his voice that obnoxious half whine that never comes out for anyone else but Dean. Dean waves the hand his cheek isn't resting on, eyes still dark and mouth still turned up at the corner. "It's-" Sam squeezes his eyes shut and huffs out a breath. "Remember stranger?"

Dean laughs, his breath warm and too close against Sam's cheek. He'd been the one to teach Sam about _stranger_ , just over half a decade ago and half too many beers in for a twenty year old. 

_If you make your hand numb, it's almost like someone else is doing it for you_ , he'd said, voice a little slurred. Even then, Sam had been too willing to follow Dean's weird sex things, hiding away after Dean had gone out the next night with his hand bent uncomfortably until it had fallen asleep and getting himself off quick before the pins and needles feeling went away. It hadn't been like another person, exactly, but he'd kept that trick around for a long time. 

"It's not like fucking, or really-" Sam doesn't _stutter_ , but there's something different about doing the fucking and getting fucked that makes his entire body ten degrees too warm when he talks about it. "Or like getting fucked. But it's- it's like stranger, you know. Just more." Dean doesn't say anything, just keeps staring at him, and Sam fights back the urge to squirm. "Happy?" 

"Well, are you going to let me watch you do it?" Dean asks after the eternity of embarrassing silence. Sam opens his mouth, ready to tell Dean off for being a jackass about it, and then the words catch up to him. It's cruel. Probably unintentionally, but it's so boneshakingly _cruel_ that Sam can't draw in a steady breath. 

"Fuck off, Dean. I mean it."

"C'mon, Sammy." Dean presses his kneecap harder into Sam's thigh, placating and obnoxious all at once. "I won't make fun of you. Scouts honor."

"You were never a scout," Sam says, mostly on autopilot. He'd kill someone right now to make a ghost, just so they could be distracted. Dean blows a raspberry. 

"Doesn't matter." He tugs at the covers, dragging it off Sam's shoulder, all the way down to his waist. Sam's arms are free. He could shove Dean down to the floor and run. He could. "C'mon. Promise. I won't say anything. Show me."

For a solid few seconds, Sam thinks about just rolling over and saying no. His pride and his heart and his whole self is on the line and if Dean laughs at him, he'll shatter into pieces. His dick doesn't care about pride and heart, twitching up when Dean lays his palm flat over the dip of Sam's waist. His dick is a filthy traitor. His brain is, too, because he never learns. 

"Need something to-" Sam's ass is still slippery wet inside, but the lube on his cock has dried tacky and useless. 

Dean leans back and digs through the duffle bags, swearing quietly to himself. He smacks down a travel sized jar of yellowed vaseline against his chest and Sam doesn't even make a face as he scoops up a handful and smears it over himself, still in his sweats and under the covers. 

"A good scout is always prepared for anything," Dean says, laughing an octave too high. Sam tries to ignore it but he can't. Dean is watching, _Dean_ is waiting. "C'mon. Let me see."

Sam kicks the too tight tucked sheets away and turns onto his back. His heart is going to explode. He knows it. Can feel it beating too hard and too fast as he shoves his sweats off, as he fights Dean for space in the too small bed, one thigh against the freezing cold wall and the other somehow thrown over Dean's hip. Dean's hand falls to Sam's stomach, rubbing a gentle circle, and Sam groans. 

"If you laugh-" Sam sucks in a sharp breath. The side of Dean's hand glances off the root of Sam's mostly soft cock and it takes everything in him not to buck up off the bed. If Dean does it again, he just might levitate. 

"I won't," Dean says, mouth against Sam's cheek, what would be a sweet kiss from anyone else. "Do it, Sam. Let me see."

Sam's learned the best ways to get inside himself. The bathtub ledge is definitely best, but this works, too, thighs already feeling how far apart they're spread, the warmth of Dean's body under the crook of his knee both embarrassing and comforting. He leans on the hip closest to the wall and closes his thumb and first finger around his sac, moving it out of the way. His cock jerks against his knuckles and Sam screws his eyes shut tight. It doesn't block out the soft in-out of Dean's breaths, doesn't block out the feel of Dean's t-shirt dragging against his shoulder every time either one of them moves, but it helps. 

Sam turns his face away from Dean as he carefully lays three fingers over the head of his cock, almost too hard, and guides it blindly to his hole. The punched out groan is impossible to stop as the tip pops inside. His cock gets fatter as he works in it as deep as he can, stretches out inside of him in a way that's still foreign but indescribably hot. When he's in as far as he can go, his pulse pounding in his ears and his throat and through his dick, Sam takes a second to breathe. 

"Go on," Dean says, voice low and rough and so close. Sams hips jerk up, his own fist catching against the inside of his thigh. 

From this angle, it's easiest to use his sac like a handle, thrusting as much as he can into it from top and bottom. He keeps his other arm hooked under his thigh, fingers of his free hand rubbing against the shaft of his cock and the hot, stretched skin of his hole to keep himself inside. He tries to bite down on his lip, tries to hold his breath, but he can't stop the panting, heavy breaths or the running commentary of _oh, God, oh, God, fuck_ from coming out. 

Each time he thrusts up, his naked hip runs raw against the edge of Dean's belt. Dean's hand still rests high up on his stomach, just under his rib cage, and Sam feels it like an anchor, pinning him to the bed. He focuses on his wrist instead, sharp, short thrusts that make him woozy and make his gut twist up. 

Dean carefully lifts Sam's thigh, wiggling down the bed until he's able to duck under Sam's knee, propped up on his elbows between Sam's legs. Sam kicks him square in the ass, mostly on accident, his hand slipping nearly all the way off his dick. He's had a version of this dream before, but he's never had his dick inside himself during it. He chokes out something that's probably a question and, like always, Dean knows. 

"View is better down here," he says, voice so low Sam can feel the vibration of it through his spine. Dean's shoulders butt up against the backs of Sam's thighs, pushing them open just a little more, and Sam squeezes his eyes closed. He can't look. He _can't_. "Keep going."

Sam fucks himself as well as he can, leg tightening around Dean, using him as leverage to thrust his hips up. His right wrist is already starting to ache, such a bad angle, but he couldn't stop if he tried. He digs his heel into the small of Dean's back and just uses the flat of his palm as a guide, the fingers wrapped around his sac too tight as he thrusts in, pinching in a way that makes his toes curl. 

If there was another person doing the fucking, now is when Sam would grab the headboard or mattress with both hands and shove his hips down, demanding and just as bratty as Dean has always called him. If Sam's cock were in someone else, now is when he would grab them by the shoulders or hips and yank them in, bury himself so deep and grind down until both of them were shaking. He can't do either and it's frustrating and exciting and all he can do instead is a mishmash version, Dean almost forgotten somehow. Sam races full speed after the orgasm just there- right there- just a few good thrusts away. 

Dean's lips drag over the bend of Sam's cock, a bare brush that lights Sam up from the inside like fireworks and force his eyes open in shock. Dean does it again and again, fluttery dry friction until there's the wet, soft touch of the tip of his tongue, just a flash, and Sam can't hold himself back. Fucking, being fucked, the sweet promise of a blowjob from that fucking mouth that's haunted him for at least eight years. Dean's nose bumps up against Sam's balls, against the clutch of his fist, and Sam twists so hard he nearly goes sideways. 

"Dean, _Dean_ , I gotta-"

"Yeah," Dean says, mouth sliding over the shaft, his eyes upturned toward Sam's, blown open and wide and it's done, it's over, Sam can feel the clench of his whole body revving up. "Gonna come inside yourself, Sam? You dirty fuck. Go on. Do it. Go ahead-" Sam has never once needed Dean's permission for anything, but he can't help the shake of his wire tight thighs or the way they clamp down on Dean's shoulders or the way his head snaps back against the pillow as his orgasm punches him with all the strength of a wendigo. 

Dean's hand lands over his where it's twitching, forcing his cock to stay inside. It's better and worse, his hole going tight and loose and tight again around the jerking head, Dean pushing down harder to shove him in deeper and- God, Christ, Jesus _fuck_ \- it's an endless loop that makes Sam's vision blur and his legs snap up and and his chest freeze. His heart is going to stop like this and he doesn't care because his brain is dead and gone, replaced by nothing more than the firing of nerves and every last ounce of humiliation will be worth it for this single orgasm. 

"Fuck," Dean says when he finally lets up, Sam's softening cock popping free with an uncomfortable surge of warmed vaseline and come, filthy and shameful and so hot that Sam can feel himself shaking apart. He'll be getting boners over this when he's _dead_. "Sam- Sammy, can I-" 

"Wh'ev'r-" Sam slurs out, barely hanging on. Dean could shoot him right now and Sam would probably thank him. 

Dean turns into a blur, rough drag of denim against Sam's shaking thighs the only clue he gets before the head of Dean's cock is pushing against where he's open and too sloppy wet, not pushing inside but thrusting against it. Sam groans, equal parts wants nothing ever to touch his ass again and for Dean to shove inside and _fuck_. There isn't enough time for him to decide. Dean sinks his teeth into Sam's chest, right over his collarbone, and makes a sound that will haunt Sam's dreams for decades, millennia, sticky wet shooting out across his balls and slipping into him and dripping all the way down his thighs. Sam's cock gives one last heroic, painful twitch. 

He's never, ever going to have sex this good again. 

Dean topples like a tree, making the mattress bounce as his shoulder hits off it. He's still half on top of Sam, his weight crushing in on Sam's chest, stealing what little breath he's managed to wrangle back. Everything is salt flavored and too intense.

"Fuck," Dean pants, breath hot on Sam's throat, his hand locked on Sam's hip hard enough that it's starting to hurt. "We gotta do that again. We gotta- fuck." Sam can't fight back the hysterical bubble of laughter. "Anything, Sammy." Brush of lips over his throat, drag of Dean's soft cock against his. Sam jerks, knees butting up against Dean's thighs. 

"Don't say shit like that. Don't say-"

"Anything you want," Dean says again, softer. He grins, cocksure, and isn't that a word that Sam can't focus on right now. "Next time, we'll watch it together, huh? I'll even let you drive." 

For a long moment they're both freeze frame still, breaths too hot as they blend together, their sweat so heavy in the air it's like the oceanside. Dean's eyes flick down to Sam's mouth and Sam throws everything out, breaking the inches between them to get a kiss in. There's no hiding behind that, no excuses, but Dean doesn't seem to be looking for one. 

In the end it's always Dean's fault, but he usually makes up for it.

**Author's Note:**

> I… make no excuses. Also some links because Sam is correct and research is Important and I did many a research. Uh. Maybe wait til you're home to open these. 
> 
> [The video that started it all](https://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=ph5a179f8c338ee)
> 
> [The weirdly blunt but incredibly, incredibly helpful How To video](https://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=ph585dc36432181)


End file.
